"Promise Kept"

(Inspired by and written for FH)

I console my friend’s husband today;
words escape me-don’t know what to say.
For how do you talk about the life
Of his one and only - his friend-his wife?

We surrounded her that last day in her hospital room-
we four high school friends and her anxious “groom.”
I remember she asked us with her usual zest-
“Why are you crying? It’s only a breast.”

When the nurse came in to usher us out,
“What a load of crap!” we heard our friend shout.
But then she beckoned me back to the room
and she whispered, “I think I may be leaving here soon.”

Then weakly she pointed toward the hall, out to him.
“Just in case I don’t wake up-please take care of Jim.”
I dismissed her words most prophetic.
Lost in my fear, I was unsympathetic.

Now with my head bent and my shoulders shaking
and with my tears falling and with my heart quaking
torn as I am with grief of my own-
I rise to console the one so alone.

I have no idea what I should say or do
to help our friend’s Jim - to bring him through
a grief so strong-so horribly profound
that for now I can say nothing – I can’t make a sound.

That way I won’t rail out against mighty Death
who audaciously has stolen my friend’s final breath.
For now I’ll just put my hand on the shoulder
Of this broken soul- the loving foot soldier.

I console my friend’s husband today;
words escape me-don’t know what to say.
So I’ll just let him talk about the life
Of the someone we loved deeply-our friend-his wife.

###

Poem by Pamela Tyree Griffin

Art by Jixue Yang

Gladys had a face like a patchwork quilt. When people first saw her they recoiled although they tried to hide it. Children cried. Teenagers made fun. Her own daughter Phoebe though,now a teenager herself, was as beautiful as sunshine. She'd never said hurtful teenage things. At least in Phoebe’s eyes, her mother was beautiful.

Gladys had been married to Phoebe’s father and there were some good times. One day however, she returned from work to find him sitting on the couch with Phoebe in his arms. His belongings were packed in suitcases lined by the door like soldiers going off to war.

"You just don't get it, " he said. "What man could reasonably be expected to wake up to a woman who looked like... that?"

And Gladys, who did want to be reasonable, snatcheed Phoebe away from him and said, " Just get out!". And that was the end like the last sentence of a very sad book wherein for better or worse held no meaning.

Still she had her Phoebe. The little girl who had always come running into her mother’s arms and given her kisses, who was ever so helpful and kind seemed to have grown up overnight. Often Phooebe said, Gladys was just fine, “Just the way you are!” It got so that Gladys believed it was true.

And she went on with her life.

Few people remembered that Gladys had not always looked this way. She had been born with a soft complexion and noble features. Those who attended her small wedding thought her radiant- a handsome woman.

One day though,when Phoebe was just a few months old,the kitchen caught fire. It raged into the living room where Gladys napped. She woke up just in time to see it surge toward the baby’s room.

She lurched from the couch, through the angry flames and into the nursery. Grabbing her sleeping baby and holding her close to her chest, Gladys tried to get the window open. It was stuck. She had no choice but to return the way she’d come - through the same flames which licked and snapped at her arms and face.

She’d saved them both. The baby, the beautiful unscarred baby, never knew the story.

And tonight, as Gladys goes to tell Phoebe goodnight and sweet dreams, she hears her daughter giggling on the phone. She doesn't interrupt her, understanding her daughter's need for privacy.

Then, “PALEEEZE! Who TOLD you that? You know I’m adopted.”

###

Story by Pamela Tyree Griffin

Photograph by Bazil Raubach

"If You Loved Me"

"I think you feel the way I feel, but if you loved me, you would show me."

I thought to myself, how many more ways can I show my love? This is what I thought, but what I said was," Whatever you want honey, name it." I reached for my wallet.

She said, “Put that thing away. This is not about money. If you loved me,” she said again, handing me a steak knife, “you would sacrifice something.”

I don’t know what I was thinking when I saw the knife. Here I’d been married to this woman for ten long years. I thought nothing she could say to me could surprise me. Out of the blue,” Look at your little finger. What is it good for?”

I had no idea how to answer that. Better for me if she’d asked for some spending money. THAT I could handle. “Deidre,” I said. “I do not get your meaning.”

“Sure you do,” was her reply. “That little finger is not even on the hand you write with. Not serving any purpose at all. I’d think you’d hardly miss it.” She was staring at it now, almost hungrily. This scenario repeated itself throughout the rest of the night. She repeated again and again the words: “Love by Sacrifice” , her voice a hoarse whisper.

“I love you, woman,” I said for the hundredth time or so it seemed.

“Well you know what to do then.”


2


When I came to, I heard an indescribable scream coming from somewhere close to me. It took about a minute before I realized it was coming from my own mouth.

I looked at my hand which was wrapped in a big bandage where blood had soaked through and through and dried. I thought, “Sweet Jesus, when did this happen?” I was sweating by then and trembling. More from fear than anger though. This crazy would kill me before it was over - that much I knew.

I needed to get outa’ there and fast. But then I heard her coming up the steps. Calling out to me she said, “Did you sleep okay honey? Boy did you snore last night!”

She came into the room dressed in my favorite blue satin nightgown carrying a tray loaded down with pancakes and sausage. Was this woman crazy? How did she expect me to eat? I just wanted outa’ here.

“You can keep the house, the car, anything, everything. I’m leaving,” I said.

“Oh, I don’t think so. You have got to eat something, dear. I made your favorite big old breakfast.”

I told her I didn’t want her breakfast. For all I knew it was full of poison. Then I went to get up but couldn’t quite catch my balance. I was too weak to make it to my feet. How much blood had I lost?



3


Groggy. Cloudy. Dizzy. Determined. All of this was me. The room was dimly illuminated by a small lamp on the dresser. I didn’t know where she was. I just knew I had to get up before I had to make any more “sacrifices.”

I was so weak, in so much pain. And the pain seemed to be coming from every part of my body - I mean every part of my body ached. How would I get outa’ here? No matter, I thought, I am gonna’ get on my feet and walk – no run outa’ here.

But getting on my feet was mere wishful thinking since I could see the left one sticking out of the small trashcan across the room. The other was sitting on my chest-toes pointing to my face.

I don't know how this horror began or what triggered it. What I do know is how it will end.

I hope it's soon.

###

Story by Pamela Tyree Griffin

Photograph by Juliet James

"A Poem For Your New Home"

May this always be a place of peace
and each room a calming refuge.

May this always be a place of happiness
and each room a joyous respite.

May this always be a place of love
and each room happy heart.

May this always be a place of rest
and each room a gentle welcome.

And may this always be a place of dreams
and each room the coming true.

###

Poem by Pamela Tyree Griffin

Artwork by Roland Maier

"Cleanliness Is Next To..."

"Think she’s coming downstairs anytime soon?”

“Who knows - you know she’s got to get them cleaned up. Make ‘em presentable.”

“But dinner is ready. I’m going to go ahead and set the table.”

It was already six and Sandra had not once come out of her room. Between her primping and getting those two ready, it’s a miracle she ever got out of the room at all.Stanley and Rose, her anxious parents, sat at the table waiting.

The food cooled. The whipped potatoes looked whipped alright and the gravy had developed a second skin.

Stanley opened the newspaper and muttered, "No wonder he divorced her. She’s fanatical about them. Must have driven him crazy. I know it's starting to annoy me and she's only been back home a month.”

Just then, Sandra appeared. The two were behind her as she walked slowly to the table.

Her mother said. “You must be hungry.”Sandra nodded.

“You think they look okay for dinner, Ma?” She pushed them forward so her mother could see them better.

“Oh sure honey. They look just fine.And you look very nice too honey.”

They clapped.

“Daddy?”

Rose gave him a nudge under the table and he said, “Sure Sandy honey just fine.”They settled in to eat.

Just then Sandra noticed a spot of something on one of them. She stood abruptly and took them back upstairs.

Her father just shook his head.

How, he thought, could he and Rose have produced a person who washed her hands all day long? How could that be?

###

Story by Pamela Tyree Griffin

Photograph by Britta Kuhnen

"PACKING"

A small, somber crowd gathers in front of the house where the EMTs must be hard at work trying to save Gloria Lewis. Nobody is allowed in. Parked next to the ambulance is a hearse.

You know a man will do crazy things in anger, the women in the group say over and over like some sort of mantra. Lord help you, they say, when a man has nothing to lose, especially a drunk man.

And Miles had been drinking for half the day - after having arrived late for work for the last dangblasted time according to his boss who fired him. It wasn't enough though, the drinking. It fueled rather than satiated his rage.

He'd often felled her like a tree, his hands a vicious axe. He'd given no thought to their children and what they might find when they returned from school. They'd seen it before anyway. The oldest one, their sixteen year old Jane, was quite practiced in the cleaning up of blood and the mending of broken bones. There would be much more to clean up this time.

Through the grapevine Gloria had learned that Miles had been fired. After three hours when he hadn't shown, she knew what was coming. She'd been down this path many times before; this worn path where she paid for his disappointments time and time again. She knew a supreme pummeling was on the menu again.

When he got home and saw she was packing, that just about did him in. He just couldn't believe her nerve. He came at her then, a mad dog, frothing at the mouth with the stale smell of cigarettes on his breath. He came at her, with his big paws fisted and ready, his sweaty face curled into a snarl of fury. This time I will finish her, he probably thought.

When the bulging black body bag was born out, a gasp traveled through the crowd like a wave. We gasped but weren't surprised. The worst had finally happened and folks wondered about the children.

The sheriff appeared.

There was no need for handcuffs. Instead, he held her small, trembling hand in his for the short ride to the hospital.As he gently helped her into the ambulance, he felt the pistol she'd been packing.

It made a small bulge in his pocket and bothered him not at all.

###

Story by Pamela Tyree Griffin

Photograph by Daniel Wildman

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(October is Domestic Violence Awareness month. Link-->Domestic Violence Awareness Month - National Coalition Against Domestic Violence You may have seen this before since I publish it somewhere every October. I wrote this story to honor those who have suffered abuse at the hands of a loved one or significant other...)